


she moves like an accident

by astrid (alharper)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, PWP, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Warcraft Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alharper/pseuds/astrid
Summary: Varian doesn't delude himself that he has always been a good man, but he does very much try to be.  He'd like to think he's known this girl too long to see her the way she wants him to now.





	she moves like an accident

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot BELIEVE that there's nothing on ao3 for this pairing, so here I am doing the lords work in the hope I'll be saved from writing for this prompt a third fucking time. The struggle is real here re: canon - I've only read the comics through to around the theramore summit & don't play a rogue, so if I've gone wildly off-base with Valeera then, uh, sorry. Sometimes you just gotta read sixteen wiki's and hope for the best.
> 
> From the kinkmeme:
> 
> https://warcraftkink.livejournal.com/588.html?replyto=572492
> 
> Valeera has a crush on Varian but he still considers her a child. But one time he accidently walks in on her masturbating and can't get this out of his head anymore.
> 
> I would love to see a lot of angst and guilt from Varian's side.

Varian likes fall.

He didn't always, but there's something about the sunset colors and the bare branches of winter just beginning to show that's comforting. A last hurrah before sleeping, to awaken whole and recovered from the ravages of the year. The heat of summer brings with it poor dreams of dark, cramped quarters with other desperates, and between the love holidays and the tiny newborn things everywhere, spring is very much for the young.

The weather is still unseasonably good - warm and dry, just a little crisp in the mornings. It's also one of the quietest periods he's seen in years, so he's frankly surprised to find Valeera in his drawing room. She's lying on the floor with her legs crossed up the wall and her fingers laced over her stomach, a picture of youthful indolence.

“You took your time,” she complains, as though they had a standing appointment he was late for, rather than her simply materializing unannounced. It is her job, after all, so far as she has one.

She's in the long stocking and red bodysuit combination she favors, though her boots are carelessly tossed to the floor beside her, which leaves a double hand-span of bare thigh to press directly against the stone.

“Aren't you cold?” he asks her, and she snorts inelegantly.

“You know I don't feel it like you do.” She's tipping her head back to look at him, and flicks her ears irritably when they fetch up on the floor. He shrugs, and starts working at the buckles that hold his spaulders. It's all very well to be dressed for state when he was renegotiating treaties, but he drew the line somewhere before his dinner table.

“I didn't find anything of real interest in Kalimdor,” she tells him, and rolls gracefully to her feet. Three light steps and she slaps his hands away. Her fingers are smaller and far more nimble than his, making quick work of the various leather straps that hold it all in place.

“I'm not surprised - the world seems fairly peaceful, at least for the moment.”

She mutters something that might be _give it time_ , and he can't help but agree - nothing good can last, and that's especially true of a peaceful Azeroth.

“It's my birthday soon,” she tells him, and he's immediately wary, the muscles across his shoulders tense. She'd left off for the last two, but in the years previous she had arrived as clockwork in Stormwind to declare herself now old enough for his attentions.

His _attentions_. As though the difference between seventeen and eighteen was so vast it would gap the distance between them - and him with 40 looming so close, now passed.

She clearly marks his trepidation, because her ears wilt a little. “I thought we might hunt,” she says, voice small, and he feels like a heel.

“I'd like that,” he tells her and just like that she's flush and pleased again, drapes the armour she has freed him from across chairs and herself across the back of the couch to peer at him.

“A few days, maybe? There’s all this wilderness around that I know you don’t bother to go into.”

“Sounds nice,” he agrees, “I'll see what I can arrange.”

*

It _has_ been some time since any issues of note arose, and with Anduin’s seventeenth birthday fast approaching, it's as good a time as any to take a few days and let him step a little further into the role of crown prince. A good boy, his Anduin, he’d looking at Varian with that clear-eyed, penetrating way he did sometimes and said “I think it’s a great idea, dad.”

He's as delighted to see Valeera as ever, and it's only with his determined extraction of a promise that she stay at least a week after their return that Varian realizes just how much less they’ve been seeing her, these last few years.

They fall into surprisingly easy chatter, as they amble up the hills behind the Keep. She keeps shooting him furtive, delighted looks.

He’s saddened for it - it took so little to please her, really, and he'd failed to. He made a note to himself to make more of an effort; she deserved better than his absence, after all the loyalty she had shown. Not to be let down over a little discomfort on his part, especially not over something as harmless as a girlish crush.

“How's Broll? I don't think I've seen him as recently as you have.”

“Oh, _him_ ,” she huffs. Varian bites back a smile at her nonchalance - he’d seen her cry genuinely bitter tears over too many brief separations to believe it. Emotional distance was a hard sell on someone he’d seen perch on one of Broll’s shoulders like a very lanky bird to bicker with him more conveniently. 

“Oh, _him_ , is it? What did _he_ do?”

“Nothing.” She scowls at the ground. “We're disagreeing about something. It's fine, he's just being grouchy.”

“Comes to all men with age,” he tells her, and she rolls her eyes.

“So speaks the grand magister of the elderly! Oh, it's fine - you know how he worries. Come on, I want to try this out.”

She's determined to use a crossbow. He can't remember her using one before, though she declares a grand history with them in her childhood - it doesn't seem unlikely, but she’s consistently off with every bolt she fires, if uncharacteristic unconcerned about it.

“It's for the best we don't need to rely on your hunting skills to survive,” he tells her after the third time something she tried to shoot gets away, and she pushes at him. He tugs on the tail of her hair in retaliation, which devolves very quickly into what is, for all their skill and years, a glorified game of find-and-chase.

They have some distance from the Keep, but they didn't work so hard at it as to gain too much. Varian’s steering them in the direction of a lake he remembers finding in the mountains in his youth. He'd happened across it some time shortly after their return to Stormwind, at a time when the noise of rebuilding had been overwhelming and he'd been desperately lonely, so recently grown used to the easy company of a boy close in age. But he'd found a few moments of genuine tranquility staring at its glassy surface, and Valeera seemed like she could use some herself.

Whether his memory or the mountains themselves will be close enough to what they were to find it is beyond him, but that’s not really the point of the exercise. It's an aimless, companionable day, and turns into the same sort of night, speaking in low voices as they lay out on scarce bedding on opposite sides of a basic campfire. He’s not been unhappy, but the easy day and the soft firelight still raises his spirits, and the crackling sings him soon enough to easy rest.

*

Varian’s not sure what wakes him.

The fire has burned most of the way down, and the moons are still out, throwing everything into unreal relief. The small packs they've taken with them are out of the circle of firelight but it still extends to where Valeera is shifting slowly in her bedding, just enough to make her skin and hair golden amongst the eerie whites and deep shadows of the moonlight. He thinks for a moment to say something, call out softly to see if she is awake or dreaming, until he realizes what she is doing.

He's transfixed, pinned down by the soft whisper of fabric and the faint, repressed noise of panting against her pillow. He should make a noise, pretend to begin to wake, perhaps. He should close his eyes and ignore that it is happening, give her what privacy he can. But Varian is not always a good man.

She's speeding up, and by pale moonlight he can see her bite her lip, furrow her long brows together. She raises one knee, and it throws a long, stark shadow that almost hides the rapidly shifting fabric where her hand is at her sex. The fingers of her other hand are tangled in her hair, pulling it tight.

Finally her breath hitches a little. She lets out a quiet, urgent cry that sets his cock, already hard against his belly, to weeping.

She lays panting for a few moments before pushing at the blankets with one hand, likely too hot just for the moment. She's still dressed, but the loose shift she's worn to sleep is quite skewed - he gets a clear, moonlit glimpse of one soft breast before an idle tug hides it again.

She lays still long enough that he thinks perhaps she’s gone to sleep until a quiet, wet noise and a sigh send another shock of arousal through him - she's been lying there, slowly drifting towards sleep, with her fingers still buried inside herself.

He closes his eyes quickly when she begins to turn her head. He stays perfectly still, ears straining, waits until her breathing changes to a rhythm too slow and even to be anything but sleep before he shifts. It doesn't take long. His cock aches where it's caught between his belly and the bedding, but he ignores it.

*

“Did you have any intention of hunting anything?”

“Didn’t I say so?”

Valeera had risen before he did, had herself dressed and perfectly put together by the time he woke. She's also been shooting all morning, and has yet to hit a single target.

“Just not catching anything?”

She shrugs, and sights down the crossbow. “Not unless you particularly want venison.”

She looses it. The bolt flies straight and fast, directly into the barrow of a small pine. The buck they had been half-heartedly following startles, and bounds away.

When they reach it, she yanks the bolt back out to reveal a small knot forming, now split. She sees him notice it and winks.

The day passes slowly, companionably as the one before, but with an added tension for Varian as he finds himself tracking Valeera instead of whatever animal they're supposed to be looking for. She doesn't seem to notice except insofar as it affects his already quite poor stealth.

“Good thing we don't need to rely on your hunting skills,” she teases.

“A King delegates,” he tells her, sardonic, and she tosses her head before flitting ahead again, scaling rocks and tree branches to sit at his eye level, another lick of flame amongst the sunset colored leaves, and make a show of waiting for him. She’s light, sure-footed, effortlessly picking her way across underbrush he has to stamp through.

Valeera was a beautiful girl when they met, and she's grown to be stunning - she's never made a habit of hiding her body, but neither has he ever been so aware of it. There’s no gain to her height but she did broaden somewhat, solid years of regular food and the finishing touches of adolescence thickening her from the knifes’ edge of a half-starved street rat to the almost lush figure she boasts now, round limbed and tempting.

“I'm a very different person to the one I was five years ago. Aren't you?” She asks this after over a quarter hour of silence with no catalyst he can see, but he agrees that he is. It’s true enough. Both of their tempers had calmed greatly - his with work, and hers with what he presumed to be a natural side-effect of time and security.

They reach the lake that afternoon, and she only grows more thoughtful as they down into the little clearing that exists around it. It’s just hidden enough to have remained untouched through much of Stormwind’s troubled history, rare tranquil space in a troubled land. Still high up the hills, the spire of Northshire Abbey is barely visible through trees and distance. She doesn’t spot it immediately, and he puts a hand on her waist to orient himself before pointing along her eye-line. Her skin is very warm even through fabric.

Varian sets them up for the evening, leaving Valeera to shed her high boots and higher stockings in favor of wading knee-deep into the lake, apple in hand. She keeps flickering pensive eyes his way, but doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t push, enjoys the easy silence. He knows this isn’t an idle trip on her part, and has his suspicions about what the outcome must be, but will take what time he might have left before she leaves again without spoiling it.

“Do you think there are any fish?” she asks him, and he considers the question. Then shrugs - he doesn't know anything about fish.

“No idea. We didn't bring poles, in any case.”

She picks over the clearing methodically, looking under rocks and into the sparse trees, wading through water to peer at the small animals that live there.

It's very much as he remembers, despite the intervening years, and as he watches Valeera investigate the shoreline, he has that same mix of excited guilt he did as a child old enough to know better having snuck away; a sense of getting away with something.

"You aren't a father figure to me, you know."

She isn't looking at him when she says it. There are smattered patches of wild grass around the lake, and she's pulled a dozen of the longest ones and is braiding them into something, still standing thigh-deep in water.

“All right,” he says, “I don't really think of you as a daughter.”

“You think of me as someone's daughter.”

“Valeera, every woman is someone’s daughter.”

“Don't be obtuse.”

He doesn't think that's fair, given he's unsure what she's driving at. He thinks of her to some degree as Broll’s daughter, in particular, but it would be absurd not to, given how often they spoke of each other in those terms.

“As you will, then. You’re nobody’s daughter, but were plucked whole from the ground like a yam.”

She looks over her braiding and, seemingly satisfied, places it on her head, a crooked circlet of yellowing grass at her brow. “I don’t know who told you that you’re funny, but you should have their tongue cut out.”

He places a hand over his chest as though shot.

“Cruel,” he tells her. “Heartless.”

“Who, me?” between the question and how wide she is holding her eyes, she could pass for an owl. He’d tell her so, but he’s just started the fire and doesn’t wish to see it put out by indignant splashing.

*

One arm crosses her chest beneath her breasts to grip her waist, perhaps to minimize the appearance of movement as Valeera touches herself in the false privacy of night. She’s rubbing with her fingertips, shift already hiked around her waist, just for a minute or so before sliding beneath to touch herself directly.

Varian’s attempts to fall asleep had been half-hearted. The anticipation curling sick and hot in his gut was rewarded - or punished, perhaps - after an hour or so of laying in feigned peace while he returned again and again to the possibility. He had known of men who would bring themselves off as a habit to assist in sleeping, so it made sense the same may be true for some women. The eagerness with which he’d had the thought shamed him, but there it was.

The cloth strains at her knuckles on every out-stroke, and he's so hard he's sick with it, with the need to touch himself, to touch her.

She moans suddenly, then claps a hand to her mouth as though surprised. The sudden movement pulls her already barely-on slip to her neck, and it's only the sick, guilty fear of betrayal on her face that lets him close his eyes against her bare breasts, moving rhythmically in the air as she settles into quick, circular motions.

It doesn’t take her long, thankfully, and she falls asleep quickly afterwards, but he waits twice as long again to be sure before turning away and putting hands to himself.

He turns his mind to someone else. Anyone else - some nonexistent woman, age appropriate and passing through, with whom he might simply pass an hour or two uninterrupted.

She might ride him, brace her hands about his head and arch forward so he can reach her breasts, cup them with his hands and bring first one and then the other to his mouth. Use his tongue and the tips of his fingers to draw them out into stiff points, gently scrape his teeth across sensitive skin until her sex around him tightens with excitement.

He massages the head of his cock with his palm, runs his thumb firmly along the length of it. Features keep trying to coalesce, and he ignores them, finally just does his best to not think of anything at all. When he comes, it's to confused impressions of strong, lean legs and golden hair against his face, warm and sweet as early summer sunshine.

*

They pass the morning uneventfully. They eat - well, Varian eats, Valeera fiddles about with another apple for the better part of an hour, she's never been one for breakfast - and he lays out on the grass and watches the sky while she strips off her shift and wades back into the small lake.

He keeps his eyes less carefully averted than he should, reasoning that it causes no discomfort to her - quite loudly, in fact, body shame is something she loudly decries as not a hang-up of _her_ people, though he wonders how sure of that she can be given she hasn't been amongst them since childhood. He's capable of controlling his own reactions and behavior, so what harm can come of looking? It's a poor justification for such an indulgence, but he sits with it. Her breasts gleam with water in the sunshine. The long expanse of her back makes him think of nectarines, pale and sweet.

She shouts for him to join her and he demurs- a low key erection tends to become a great deal less low key once naked - but lingers idly on the thought of her body sliding against his in the water.

He’s almost dozing by the time Valeera emerges. She dresses quickly, which he both is and is not grateful for, before throwing herself down on the grass beside him, red fabric darkening where it sticks to her still-damp skin.

“Do you love me?” She’s determinedly cloud-watching, but her ears are quivering ever so slightly with how still she is trying to hold them. They’ve come to the point of it, then - the conversation she brought him out here to have.

“Of course I do.”

“Do you think I'm beautiful?”

“Very beautiful,” he says gently but she's upset, face tense, stares accusingly at the sky. “Has someone told you otherwise?”

“Then why don't you _do_ anything about it? Even by human standards, I’m really not that young any more. Besides which, I’m going to outlive you by a wide enough margin it makes sense to start early.”

She's trying to be glib, but for someone so deep into the kind of assassin and spy-master skill-sets he knows her to have, she’s a shocking liar - at least, with him. This clearly eats at her, and has for some time.

“I can't help that I'm going to die, Valeera,” he says gently.

“I don't think it's about my age at all,” she bites out, and he's lost for a moment by the change back. “I think you just don't like me, and you're trying to be kind.” Unsaid but clear in her voice is the fear not that he doesn’t like her as a man, but that he doesn’t like her at _all_.

“Of course I like you,” he says helplessly, and the look she shoots him is scathing.

“I know that you want me, Varian. So why don't you want _me_?”

He's speechless, for an awful moment, because he _does_ , has spent the last two days trying to reach peace with the revelation that he wants to map every square inch of her body with his mouth and his hands, but it’s not as though it’s impersonal. She's a clever whip of a girl who has white-knuckled her way through incredible hardship all her life while ultimately keeping good humor, but he is monstrous to think of her this way. She deserves so much better from him than his lust.

But then, she’s right - she isn't a girl any more. The Valeera he had first met, that brave child, had not wasted the years in which he had been too busy to pay her much attention. She had come into herself while he was busy with other things, become a woman grown.

He's taking too long to answer.

“I have a responsibility,” he tells her quietly, and her fingers bite into her arms.

“To Stormwind?”

“To _you_. To not take advantage of your youth and inexperience-”

“I'm not _inexperienced._ ”

“- and to make sure that I don't do you harm.” He half expects her to assert that this harms her. She would have, a few years ago, a sweet sentiment that would have steeled him with its immaturity. But she doesn’t, just looks at him sideways and then back at the sky.

“I’m in a better position to decide what I’m ready for than you are.”

“Are you? You have a tendency to overreach, Valeera, and end up with a double handful of something you didn't understand well enough to be touching.” Her eyes narrow in profile at what he will admit was a low blow.

“I know more of how the world works than you think.”

“And you know less of _me_ than _you_ think. You deserve better than I could offer you.”

 _That_ gets her blood up, followed by her entire self, rolling to her knees to lean over him, hands on her hips. He sits up. 

“I know you as well as anyone, _Lo’gosh_. So you liked the bottle a little too much, and were angry while you’re in it - you think you’re the only man to spend a few years drinking too much? To - what, scare your boy a time or two? What hefty crimes! Light save us from such a terrible man seeing a whiff of power, he might bring down all of Azeroth with his self-fearing abstinence.”

She really does love him, this poor, beautiful girl, loves him beyond reason and without artifice, and he is _so greedy_ for it. That is what finally reduces his already weakened resolve to breaking - not the lines of her body and his voyeuristic knowledge of it, but her stout, absolute conviction of his character.

Anduin’s bitter disappointment had been the making of him. Not in disappointment, but his unwavering faith that Varian was capable of being better. This is perhaps his truest fault - that in order to be the man he wants to be, _needs_ to be, someone else has to believe it of him first, present him with a bar of their creation before he will meet it. He can find no motivation but his reflection in the eyes of the people who love him.

She speaks with such surety that he already is, that his status as a ‘good man’ is an inarguable cornerstone to her experience of the world, and his terrible hunger to hear it from her may be just as efficiently his unmaking.

“I am just a man,” he tells her, “with foibles and failings, like any other. Don’t ask me again, Valeera.”

Her eyes are penetrating, and he has the sick feeling that she has the entire mark of him as a shy, pleased smile begins to curl about her mouth.

“If you want to bed me, Varian, then bed me.”

“Do you even have experience of your own?”

She shrugs. “Little that I care to remember, but I’m no blushing virgin.”

There are limits to how long he can say no when he wants, so very badly, to say yes. When she leans forward to press her lips against his, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her down to him. She overbalances, surprised by the immediacy of his response, and he uses that to seat her in his lap, slip his tongue into her mouth. Her wet hair falls around their faces like a curtain, cool and smelling faintly of the pines that shed needles all around them.

She’s not patient - and no surprise there - pulls at his shirt until he takes it off obligingly and is reaching for his pants as soon as his arms are freed.

“We do have _some_ time,” he tells her, and he isn’t sure of the look she’s giving him, though he can guess. “You aren’t selling me on your experience.”

“I’m _experienced_.” She rolls her eyes, but he’s not sold on the specifics of what that might mean. Her kisses are what he would expect, given the rest of her personality - eager, escalating with very little lead-in and entirely, artlessly confident. The heat of her body against him is somehow both exactly as he had thought, and an unexpected revelation. She presses at his cock through his pants, tracing the shape of it, and he’ll need to stop those curious fingers soon if he doesn’t want to be reduced to an adolescent in first blush. 

Valeera goes as he places her - her eyes are closed, and she doesn’t open them as he turns over and lays her out on her back on the grass, just keeps her hands on his face to seek out his mouth again. Even this comparatively small symbol of trust is humbling.

He disengages from her mouth with some small reluctance, and settles low between her legs to lay firm, open-mouthed kisses along her thighs, working his way in as slowly as he can stand. He holds her legs up and open with firm hands splayed across her thighs, and they begin to tremble as his kisses get longer, wetter, pressing against the tender skin where her leg joins her body, so very close to her sex.

He’s seriously considering the merits of simply tearing the infernal thing when she reaches down and the suit peels back beneath her hands. There's some hidden catches built along the seam he hadn't found which allow her to slide it off one side as a single piece, contorting awkwardly to avoid having to raise too far from the ground. He divests himself quickly of his pants, - mostly for parity at this point, but the air is pleasantly cool on his aching erection.

Her nipples pebble as they hit the air, and lays wet, open-mouthed kisses on each of them while her arms are still caught in the suit, smirking to himself when she shivers. When he runs a finger along her seam, testing the moisture there, it slips right in without resistance.

“ _Varian_ ,” she says, is staring at him with huge, impossible eyes.

“Did you want something?”

There's a warm ball of very smug pleasure forming at the desire in her voice, and the smell of her is getting stronger as she grows wetter beneath his teasing. Her hips roll towards him in little thrusts, aborted by his grip on her legs, and he chuckles when she lets out a frustrated whine.

“I won't beg you,” she says crossly, and he laughs - a deep, masculine sound that clearly pulls a reaction out of her all its own.

“Won't you, now?” he asks, rakes his fingers through the tight, dark curls of her sex, and any annoyance she tries to have is ruined by another shiver. She grasps at his arms and bends up for another demanding kiss, which he allows before pushing her back down again, kneeling low to get at her.

He runs the point of his tongue just along the seam of her pussy, enough to part her lips, and she gasps. A pulse of hot wetness floods out in response to the stimulation. He circles her clit with his tongue, presses it flat against her and _drags_. She shouts, surprise finding her voice for her, and pushes against him.

One of her hands floats down towards his head and he catches it, squeezes her fingers affectionately, runs his thumb back and forth across her palm even as he continues to lave at her cunt.

She whimpers, squeezes back tightly until finally he relents and seizes her hips instead, presses his tongue against her lips in broad strokes, ends each with a hard flick over her nub that makes her jolt. Her fingers tighten around his and she’s trying to keep her voice to herself, hiccuping little sighs as she grinds against his face. 

She's growing erratic and close, breath coming in loud, hitching gusts when he abruptly pulls back and blows cool air over her outer lips.

She rears up onto her elbows and actually _snarls_ at him, eyes wild, and he laughs.

“Won't change your mind about begging?”

“Please, Varian,” she says immediately, “ _please_.” Her head falls back and she spreads her legs even wider, arches beneath his hands, wanton and desperate for contact.

“All right, baby,” he murmurs and lays his mouth back on her, teases her open with his fingers and licks around them, around her entrance and inside it. She's crying out openly, rhythmic noises climbing higher with the pace he's set her, and finally he moves to seal his mouth around her clit and suckles at it demandingly until she comes sobbing underneath him, drenching the lower half of his face in her juices.

Her hands shake when she presses at his shoulders, and he surges up to crowd over her, claims open-mouthed, languid kisses and laughs at the way she wrinkles her nose.

“Don't like the taste?”

“It's odd,” she says, and he scrubs his face roughly on his discarded shirt.

“Better?”

She blushes very prettily, and when he presses against her she wraps her legs around him, starts turning her hips to try to catch his cock against her entrance.

“Any requests?”

“Just that you _fuck_ me,” she says irritably, and the tips of her ears going even redder as she says it.

“As you wish,” he answers, and the little scowl is wiped from her face she he presses inside.

For all her tart claims, he does have some concerns about the true breadth of her experience. Human cocks trend broader than elven ones and his is no exception, so between those two things he'd preferred to be sure she would accommodate his girth in comfort before attempting it. There's no selflessness to it - he enjoys the taste of women almost as much as the touch - but all the same, it feels as though he's spent the entirety of the last three days waiting for this precise moment, lining up his cock to push slow and steady into the hot centre of her until he’s fully seated.

He keeps careful watch on her face, not trusting her to be honest if she’s in discomfort - Valeera has odd ideas about what constitutes bravery sometimes, and this is the last place he wants some misunderstanding isolating her. But other than the initial surprise, she seems pleased enough, and her sex flutters around him as she breathes through the sensation. He takes a moment, for his own sake as much as hers.

“All right?” he asks and she nods, a blush dusting high across her cheeks. Her eyes are bright and clear. She thinks far too well of him, but he is beyond all saving now - if she won't be convinced, he’s more than done trying.

“Good,” he says, and begins to move: a sweet slide in and out as she gets used to the feeling.

She's more hedonistic now, no longer bound by attempts to be quiet, orgasm having banished her last shy hesitancies. She hums against his shoulder and makes pleased, wordless little noises, rolls her hips up to meet him, kisses him open mouthed and warm, delights in the touch of skin to skin.

Then she makes a thoughtful face and tightens herself around him - which, while pleasurable, denoted far too much focus for his ego given this is their first time doing this. So he settles himself down onto his heels and spreads his knees wide. He hooks her legs over his elbows and starts fucking her in earnest - fast, hard strokes that push high-pitched little grunts from her. She grabs at him, fingers biting into his forearms, tries to meet his pace before giving up and letting him move her as he will, panting beneath him.

Once the noises she's making become longer and more urgent, he slides a hand up one of her legs to push her calf up against his shoulder. It takes a little doing without breaking the rhythm he has going, but he slides his hand back down the inside of her leg again until he can get his thumb against her clit, fingers splayed across the gentle curve of her belly, and starts rubbing around it - gently at first, and then harder as she reacts, shuddering against him.

Her back bows into a tight arc and he stops his thrusting in favor of pressing himself in, riding out her hard aimless shudders. He keeps up the fast, hard little circles on her clit until she dissolves in a long, unaffected wail, pulsing around him, so hot and sweet he has to grab at himself to keep from spilling before he is done.

She’s yielding beneath him when she comes back to herself, eyes soft and barely focused. He kisses her as sweetly as he knows how, begins to move again slowly, and she runs her hands over him - his arms, his chest, aimlessly affectionate. She rubs her face against his sweetly to catch herself another kiss, and this was what he had been holding out for. She's a spitfire, has always been, but that undercurrent of softness has always been waiting if you could only get your fingers caught under her armor, ferret out traces of that person she was still just a little too frightened to be. She clings to him. Part of him wants to keep doing this indefinitely, hearing those yearning sighs, bask in the way she look at him, guileless in a way she rarely is any more.

There’s at least a half dozen things he can think of that he’d like to do with her, but his curiosities will need to be fulfilled another time. He buries his face in her neck and loses himself in her, in and out, until his balls begin to tighten and lift and he pulls back quickly. The urge to lose himself to it is strong and he thinks about it has he comes - about burying himself deeper instead of pulling back, filling her with his seed - even has he strokes himself through to shoot safely onto the ground between them, ropes of thick come hitting grass warmed by the sun and their bodies

He has already made his tow-headed child, and cannot imagine her taking well to the limitations of pregnancy. Or royalty, for that matter, cannot imagine her finding the rules of queenship anything but extremely grating, even if he were to ignore the not insignificant political difficulties to do it.

She tugs him back down. He lets her arrange him on the bedding so she lays in his arms, head tucked beneath his chin, and he relegates it as conversations for a later day. He's not sure if he'll tell her about having seen her pleasuring herself in the moonlight, but there are already plenty of potential minefields in the near future without borrowing further trouble. They will return in the morning but for now, there are no demands on his attention but Valeera’s hands curled against his chest, and the whisper of wind through changing leaves.


End file.
